Althar Cross walked barefoot, each step biting into the cold, uneven earth of the Seven Hills' outskirts. His stomach churned, not from hunger this time, but from fear. What if I die here? What will happen to Elira and Mother? Who will feed them? The thought of returning home to face their suffering clawed at him, but the vision of his mother's frailty, the pallor of her skin, the vacant look in her eyes, was crueler than any fear. He forced himself forward.
The hills loomed before him like dark sentinels, jagged peaks piercing the crimson streaks of sunset. Their name, Seven Hills, had nothing to do with their number. Long ago, an ancient battle had raged across these slopes for seven days and nights, fought by men and spirits, mortals and monsters alike. When the fighting ended, the blood-soaked earth bore a curse that lasted for centuries. Villagers dared not tread here, walking miles around the hills instead of hours through them. To them, fear was safer than speed.
Althar's bare feet pressed against the uneven ground, the soil damp with evening mist. As he reached the first incline, a murder of crows erupted from the twisted trees. Their shrill cries cut through the silence, wings slicing the air like sharp blades. It was as if the birds themselves were issuing a warning: Turn back, boy. This path does not forgive.
He did not turn back.
With a trembling breath, he began to climb. The slope was steep, littered with jagged stones and gnarled roots that snagged his feet and tore at his rags. His body, weak from years of hunger and back-breaking labor, screamed in protest. Muscles burned, lungs burned, yet he endured. Step after step, the climb became agony incarnate. Each movement tested his resolve. Each stumble reminded him of the stakes.
Mother… Elira… I cannot fail you, he whispered under his breath, his words swallowed by the mist.
The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in twilight. Shadows twisted across the hills like fingers, long and clawed. The air smelled of wet earth and decay, and faint whispers carried on the wind, though no one was there to speak them. Althar pressed on, ignoring the chill that crept up his spine. Every step felt heavier than the last, his body threatening to collapse beneath the weight of desperation.
After what felt like hours, he paused at a narrow ridge. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the dust and grime of the climb. He leaned on his knees, gasping, every muscle quivering with exhaustion. From below, the crows had not disappeared; they circled overhead, black shapes against the dying light. Their cries had become almost rhythmic, like drums beating in time with his pounding heart.
Althar closed his eyes. Memories of home flooded him: his mother struggling to remember his name, Elira's hopeful smile despite her hunger, the cruel laughter of the village boys as they mocked his frailty. He could not fail them. He would endure.
He opened his eyes and continued.
The mist thickened as he climbed higher, curling around his legs, clinging to his skin. Shapes moved within it—rocks that seemed larger than they should be, shadows that flickered at the edge of vision—but every time he looked again, they were gone. The wind howled through the ridges, carrying with it the faint scent of iron and old blood. He shivered but did not stop.
The climb became steeper, more treacherous. Stones shifted beneath his weight, and loose roots threatened to topple him. At one point, he slipped, scraping his palms and knees raw against jagged rocks. Pain shot through his body, sharp and relentless, but Althar forced himself to rise. Each scar, each bruise, was a mark of survival. He was already a boy with nothing; losing his life now would mean leaving nothing for those he loved.
As night deepened, the Seven Hills revealed more of their secrets. Twisted trees with bark like scorched bone loomed over him, their branches scraping the sky. Low growls echoed across the ridges, distant but unmistakable, vibrating through the ground beneath him. Something moved in the shadows—large, unseen, yet undeniably alive. Althar's heart raced. He wanted to scream, to run, to throw himself down the slope and escape, but every fiber of his being held him firm.
He had come too far to turn back.
At the peak of the first hill, he paused again, gasping for breath. Below him, the village was a faint smear of smoke and firelight, tiny and distant. He realized how small he truly was in the world—an insignificant boy against an ancient, cursed landscape. Yet even as fear threatened to consume him, a strange exhilaration flickered within. The world was larger than he had ever imagined, and for the first time, he felt the weight of destiny pressing against him.
The ridge narrowed, forming a natural corridor between two hills. Mist swirled thickly, and his vision blurred. He stumbled, almost losing his balance. That was when he heard it: a soft, almost imperceptible whisper carried on the wind.
"Turn back…"
Althar froze, every hair on his body standing on end. The voice was hollow, echoing as though from a thousand mouths at once. It was not the wind, nor the crows, nor the trees. Something else had spoken. Something ancient.
He clenched his fists. I will not turn back.
The path led him higher, winding through narrow ledges and steep inclines. He began to see faint glimmers in the mist—strange lights that flickered and vanished when he blinked. Shapes moved at the periphery of his vision, shadows that seemed to mimic his every movement. He stopped, straining to see, but found only the mist and rocks.
Are the hills alive? he wondered.
Pain and exhaustion gnawed at him, but he pushed onward. Every step became a battle of will. He thought of his mother, fragile and sickly. He thought of Elira, waiting for him with hope burning in her eyes. He could not fail them.
Hours passed—or perhaps only minutes; time seemed meaningless in the fog and darkness. His legs trembled uncontrollably, and his breath came in ragged gasps. The night deepened into a velvet black, pierced only by the faint glow of the stars above, their light unable to penetrate the thickening mist.
Suddenly, the ground beneath him shifted. A loose stone rolled away, and Althar stumbled, sprawling against the cold earth. Pain shot through his palms, knees, and back, but he forced himself upright. The mist around him swirled unnaturally, carrying a chill that sank into his bones.
Then came the sound: a low, resonant hum, vibrating through the very ground. Althar froze, every nerve screaming. It was not wind, not animal. The hum grew louder, echoing off the hills, vibrating in his chest. Something deep and immense was stirring within the Seven Hills.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep moving. Each step became heavier, every motion an act of defiance. He could not falter—not now, when hope was so close and danger so palpable.
Eventually, he reached a plateau halfway up the first hill. The crows had quieted, leaving only the eerie whispering of the wind. Here, the mist parted slightly, revealing jagged stones and twisted roots. In the distance, he thought he saw movement—a fleeting shimmer that vanished when he focused on it.
Althar pressed on, trembling but determined. The path grew steeper, the mist thicker, and the strange lights more insistent. His mind reeled with exhaustion, yet he could not stop. One step. Then another. Climb. Endure. Survive.
Hours or lifetimes passed. The Seven Hills tested him at every turn: jagged rocks tearing his hands, sudden drops that threatened to swallow him whole, chilling winds that sapped the warmth from his bones. Yet he climbed, driven by love, desperation, and the faint glimmer of hope that a single spring could save his family.
At last, nearing the second peak, he paused. His chest heaved, his legs shook like saplings in a storm, and his skin was slick with sweat. The mist around him thickened, obscuring the path ahead. He could feel it now—the presence of something ancient, watching, waiting, just beyond the veil of fog.
Althar closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath.
I will not fail. I cannot fail. I will save them… even if it kills me.
With that, he stepped forward, into the unknown.
The Seven Hills stirred.
And for the first time, Althar Cross felt the weight of their watchful silence press down on him.